


Ruiner

by MortuaryBee



Category: Bandom, NIN - Fandom, Nine Inch Nails (Band), Real Person Fiction, Rock Music RPF, Trent Reznor - Fandom
Genre: Backstage, Bloodplay, Boys Kissing, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kissing, Knifeplay, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 19:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7119298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MortuaryBee/pseuds/MortuaryBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You finally got that backstage pass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruiner

Trent’s eyes are transfixed on the knife as it slowly drags its way across your stomach. His hair hangs over one bloodshot eye. Liquor lingers on his breath but the dark circles under his eyes, shallow cheeks, and slow, languid, movements indicate something harder.

You aren’t sure how long you’ve been standing in this dingy dressing room, but you feel like less of a person and more of a canvas. You’ve been a fan since the beginning but it took nearly a year to secure a backstage pass. Your breath shakes as the pressure against your skin increases. You’ve never done this in real life.

You shiver as he drags the tip of the blade across your thigh. It’s hard enough to scrape but doesn’t quite break the skin. He leans forward and presses his nose to the crease between your neck and shoulder. His jet black hair brushes your nipples as he inhales deeply.

You feel violated in a way you weren’t expecting. Arousal mixes with embarrassment in the pit of your stomach. He stands back and pulls you down ontop of him. The couch dips under your combined weight. He places a hand gently on your hip and the fishnet in his sleeve catches on the button of your pants. He severes the connection with a bored flick of the wrist. The blade of his knife flickers in the dull light of a table lamp.

“Shame on us.” He says quietly. It doesn’t feel as though he’s talking to you. He looks away and shrugs. “I’m drunk,” he offers in explanation.

You open your mouth to reply but stop short as cold, sharp metal presses into your tongue. You instinctively jerk away but the added pressure is enough. You taste copper and salt.

He pushes the blade into your chin until you are forced to tilt your head back. It presses into your adam's apple as saliva collects in the back of your throat. You can feel your heart pounding against his muscular forearm. His eyes begging you to move as vinyl covered fingers dig into your hips. This is the first time you’ve seen him smile. It shows teeth but doesn’t reach past the eyeliner.

“And I control you.”

His tongue brushes across his lips as he drags the blade down your neck and presses it hard against your sternum. “May god have mercy,” you wince at the sharp sting as metal finally tears your skin. It’s almost as exciting as the endorphins that follow. “On our dirty. Little.” You flinch as he pulls the knife down further, extending the cut. “Hearts.”

He pulls the knife away but yanks your wrists behind you. Your weight shifts and you sink further down into his lap. Black leather pants squeak under your weight. You try not to be disappointed when his expected arousal is absent. Your knees push into the cushion on either side of his hips. The grip of a sleek, sticky, vinyl glove tightens. You arch your back and strain against inevitable bruises as he pins your wrists to the couch between his legs.

His lips curl as you feel a small drop of blood form in the middle of your chest. The sting is a constant nuisance. He smears a thumb through the droplet as it runs towards your stomach.

“This…” He drags the knife across your stomach in a lazy swirl. The imprint leaves small beads of red forming in its wake. His voice softens. His glazed over eyes are unfocused. You wonder if he’s aware he’s talking out loud. “This is the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

Your stomach screams and your chest burns. It’s hard to think past this kind of pain. He presses harder and drags another shallow cut across the others.

The blade slows its dull scrape along your collarbone as something catches his eye over your shoulder. A familiar voice sends a chill down your spine as it reaches your ears. You’ve never heard it in person.

The grating end of a rant crashes in from the hall. “-your selective judgements and goodguy badges don't mean a fuck to me!” Marilyn Manson is leaning against the doorframe, shirtless.

An arm covered in black leather from bicep to fingertip flips off what you assume is a security guard. He’s wearing 6 inch platforms with large buckles up to his calf. They’re zipped over highwaisted leather pants that go past his navel. He winks at you and nods toward the security guard.

“He wants to be me and that scares him.”

Marilyn Manson looks past you and you aren’t sure if you're supposed to respond. He stalks across the room in long, purposeful strides. He reaches a long, skinny arm across your shoulder and grabs Trent under his chin. He bends Trent's head back and forces eye contact. His voice is rougher than you expected this close.

“White trash get down on your knees.”

Trent sneers and his expression doesn’t falter when Marilyn’s grip tightens. You’re close enough to watch Trent’s pupils dilate. His breathing increases and his pants are tighter than before. He pulls you further into his lap and you grind against a new hardness. His teeth scrape against smooth leather when Marilyn Manson pushes a thumb past his lips.

“Time for cake and sodomy.”

Trent runs a finger from your navel to the top of your stomach. He wipes blood from the blade onto your thigh. His lips twitch as he directs his attention towards you. “Looks like the devil wants to fuck me in the back of his car.” He slides out from under you and off of the couch. You blink up at him, unsure. You flinch at the flick of his switchblade being closed. Your eyes wander to the knife bulging out of his pocket. Trent waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder and shrugs.

“Nothing quite like the feel of something new.”

He follows Marilyn Manson out without so much as another glance in your direction.


End file.
